


don’t lose yourself in your fear

by Lire_Casander



Series: nothing ever goes the right way [2]
Category: 9-1-1: Lone Star (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Bleeding, Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Mentions of Bleeding Injuries, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lire_Casander/pseuds/Lire_Casander
Summary: domestic accidents happen from time to time
Series: nothing ever goes the right way [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1943992
Kudos: 78





	don’t lose yourself in your fear

**Author's Note:**

> written for [tarlosweek2020](https://tarlosweek2020.tumblr.com/), **_day 2: favorite line/scene + it’s okay to cry + comfort_**
> 
> written for **_no anesthetic_** from my [bad things happen bingo card](https://lire-casander.tumblr.com/post/626174763915722752/welcome-to-my-very-own-bad-things-happen-bingo)
> 
> beta’ed by @meloingly. any remaining mistakes are my own
> 
> title from _The Walk_ by Hanson

Carlos steps into their house after a long shift to the sound of clinking and laughter coming off in waves. He smiles softly as he kicks off his shoes, wandering quickly to the master bedroom. He makes sure he drops his regulation gun into the safe he keeps hidden away inside the wall, next to their bed, before stepping out of the room and into the kitchen, where the source of all the noise seems to be.

He is greeted by a wonderful sight.

TK is sitting on the floor, covered in flour and what looks like gooey icing, surrounded by pots and pans, while their five-year-old son Nico is running in circles, by some miracle avoiding the catastrophic state of the floor around him, for which Carlos is sure that he’s the main cause. On the counter, he can see the remnants of what could have been a chocolate cake with white chocolate icing — now it’s only a skeleton of crumbled biscuits and a mangled attempt at chocolate batter.

“Papa!” Nico screams, his voice ringing through the air and reaching Carlos’ ears as though it was a love song and not a shrill. “You home!”

The kid races toward him, baking momentarily forgotten, and Carlos catches him easily, lifting Nico up until he’s hugging Carlos. “I’m home, peque. What are you doing here!”

“We make a cake!” Nico says excitedly. His little hands gesture in the air, moving toward the center of the kitchen where TK is still sitting, covered in flour and sporting a dopey smile upon seeing Carlos with their son. “Daddy and I! T’was fun!”

“I’m pretty sure it was,” Carlos acquiesces, lowering Nico to the ground and watching as the kid resumes his running. He squatters and touches TK’s arm with the tips of his fingers, ready for a homecoming kiss, when all hell breaks loose.

Honestly, Carlos has to admit that it’s been mostly his own fault for standing in the middle of Nico’s trajectory, but he’s too distracted by TK’s greener than green eyes and so intoxicated by his spreading smile that he doesn’t notice the knife standing perilously on top of the counter or his own son speeding right into the knife’s handle that’s peeking out of the surface.

There’s a skidding noise, a couple of cries that Carlos is sure are coming from Nico, and then there’s TK’s muffled complaint as he all of a sudden brings his right hand up to cover his left arm, and his fingers get coated in red in no time. The fallen knife has somehow stabbed TK through the everlasting grey hoodie he wears at home, opening a wound through his flesh.

“I’m okay,” TK tells them both. Nico frowns midway through a trembling wail, but TK reassures him with a smile of his own before turning so his arm is pressed against the kitchen counters, hiding effectively his injury. “See? Everything’s okay.”

But there’s a cringe in his words as he speaks, and his face is eerily becoming whiter than paper. Carlos gets reminded of a different time — seven years ago, when they were still testing the waters of what they could be — and is briefly frozen in place before his first responder instincts kick in.

TK beats him to it, again.

“Nico,” he says through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you go to the living room and turn on the TV?” he asks. “I bet there’s a marathon on the Paw Patrol right now.” His words work exactly the way Carlos knows TK intended them to be — a way to lure their son out of the kitchen and keep him from getting scared when the injury, inevitably, starts bleeding through TK’s shirt sleeve and his fingers pressing on it.

Carlos throws TK a worried look just as an excited Nico rushes outside of the kitchen, right before he can see the blood that’s now flowing out of TK’s arm like a fountain. 

“Papa, come watch Paw Patrol with me!” he calls, almost as an afterthought, once he’s already jumping up and down on the couch.

“In a minute!” Carlos calls back, relaxing minutely when he hears the tune to the cartoon blasting through their house. He kneels beside TK and helps him to a position where his left arm isn’t sandwiched against hard surfaces.

The knife is still puncturing the flesh, and Carlos doesn’t dare to take it out. He might not be a paramedic, but he has enough knowledge of these kinds of things to know how to behave. TK is biting down on his lip, drawing blood, and his eyes are a bit glassy.

“It hurts like a bitch,” he groans lowly when Carlos’ hands feather above the injury. “I don’t feel my hand,” he mutters. To prove his point, he furrows his brows and purses his already bleeding lips, but when Carlos looks down at his fingers, they aren’t wriggling. “See?”

“It could be the adrenaline, TK,” Carlos tries to comfort him. “I’ll call 911, you sit here.”

“Nico will freak out if first responders come bursting into our home,” TK reasons with him.

“I know, Ty, but this might need medical treatment. Probably stitches.” Carlos rubs a hand over his face. “I’m calling Michelle, and your father.”

“What is it with you and calling my father when something happens?” TK laments, still clutching his arm. “He’ll be worried sick.”

“As he should be, because you’re a menace to yourself,” Carlos jokes. “I’m calling him because you’d hate not knowing if the situation was the other way around, and in case Michelle says you have to go to the hospital. Someone has to take care of Nico, since I’ll go with you if that happens.”

“D’you think I need a hospital?” TK whispers, looking down at his injury. “It was an accident. I shouldn’t have left the knife dangling off the edge.”

“And I shouldn’t have stood in the middle of the kitchen knowing Nico was most likely in a sugar high,” Carlos tells him. “But what’s done is done.” He fishes for his cell phone and dials his best friend’s number.

Michelle picks up at the second ring.

Carlos has never been more grateful for the fact that she never leaves a call unanswered that he is at this very exact moment.

“Michelle,” he breathes out. “TK’s hurt.”

She doesn’t even ask. She instructs him to stay put and tells him that she’ll be there in five minutes, confirming that there’s no need for him to open the door — she will bring the key they gave her for emergencies. When they moved down the road from her apartment, Carlos hadn’t been convinced about the neighborhood — whether or not it was a good place to raise a child — but now he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Calling Owen Strand is another thing entirely.

Carlos knows Owen still worries about TK, even after all this time, even after six and a half years of sobriety and an immaculate record at work. Now that he himself is a parent, he knows Owen will always worry, just the same as they will always worry about Nico. But telling Owen that his son has been hurt in a domestic accident and that there’s blood everywhere — and Carlos doesn’t want to freak out but maybe he is, a little — it all makes him want to puke.

“I will be there as soon as possible,” Owen promises, a tinge of worry darkening his voice. “Is Michelle on her way?” When Carlos tells him so, Owen sighs audibly. “Fine. I’ll bring toys so Nico is entertained.”

“And maybe some chocolate cake?” Carlos finds himself asking. “They were kinda baking one when everything happened, and Nico’s going to ask for it later on.”

“Anything for my grandson,” Owen promises, hanging up shortly after.

Carlos turns to his husband, now visibly paler and with tears in his eyes. “Hey, hey,” he whispers, rushing back to his side. “I know it hurts, but Michelle will be here in no time. You’ll be fine.”

As if on cue, he hears the front door opening and Michelle’s cheerful greeting followed by Nico’s squeal of delight. “Hey, Nico,” she says when Carlos peeks out of the kitchen door. “What about you stay here while I go greet your daddies?”

“In the kitchen,” he tells her, attention focused once again on the TV. “There’s cake!”

“Great! I bet they can give me a slice!” she says, voice as even as ever, before she saunters to the kitchen. She stops when she enters the room, taking in the scene before her eyes. “Okay,” she says in a low voice. “Lemme check the wound, TK.”

Carlos watches as Michelle tends to the injury, cleaning it from drying blood and assessing the situation without taking the knife out. She sighs when she finishes.

“This will need stitches,” she declares. “And probably a doctor to assure you that nothing’s gravely injured. I’m worried about you not being able to move your fingers, but it could be the shock. I don’t like the idea of you undergoing any kind of treatment because of your refusal to take any painkillers or use any anesthetic,” she keeps on.

TK shakes his head. Carlos knows that, ever since his overdose back in New York, TK has refused to take even ibuprofen for a headache. He’s scared shitless about relapsing, and after his coma — a patch of time when his sobriety had been put on hold due to the gravity of his injuries — TK had undergone a few minor procedures, all using local, topical anesthetics. Never systemic drugs, and never anything that allowed his soul to go numb.

“Owen coming to take care of Nico?” Michelle asks casually after a few moments of silence, and as if on cue, the front door opens again and this time the greeting is way more enthusiastic on Nico’s part — that they can hear — when Owen steps inside and announces he brings Mr. Waddles, Nico’s favorite stuffed toy that once upon a time belonged to TK.

Carlos smiles.

“I guess that answers my question,” Michelle states. “Okay then. Let’s get moving. The sooner we get you into an ER, the sooner you’ll be back here playing with your son.”

“I can’t say goodbye to Nico in this state,” Tk complains. “And I’ve never gone away for any amount of time without telling him.”

“Guess there’s always a first time for everything,” Michelle retorts. “I know it hurts, both the injury and the situation. And I know Nico. He’ll get over it in no time when he sees you back completely healthy.”

TK stands up and winces as he moves his arm. Michelle has cut the shirt and the seams are hanging off his skin in weird angles, making it more difficult to hide his current state from his five-year-old son who most likely would want to say goodbye to them and ask where they’re going.

When they begin trickling out of the kitchen into the open space that is the living room, Owen lifts his head from where he’s been looking at something Nico’s been showing him, and Carlos can see the worry etched in his features. He wants to reassure his father-in-law that everything will be fine, but he doesn’t find the words when Owen shoots a glimpse toward TK and pales. Carlos knows they must be quite a sight.

“Hey, peque,” he says, catching Nico’s attention while Michelle rushes TK to the door. “Daddy and I have to go out with Aunt Michelle for a while.”

“Why?” Nico asks, bringing his thumb up to his mouth and tucking it inside. Carlos can see the tears beginning to form in his expressive eyes — despite being five, Nico is still deeply afraid of separation. When they adopted him, they weren’t told the exact details of what the kid had gone through — no one knew, really, not after having found him at three wandering through a park in the middle of the night, mostly naked and malnourished. TK and Carlos hadn’t asked; they had accepted the gift life had given them without questioning it.

“We need to run some errands,” Carlos tells him. He hopes it doesn’t count as a lie — maybe a white lie — because they try not to lie to their son, but this is a dire situation they’ve found themselves into. “We’ll be back in no time. And you can show Grandpa Owen your new football.”

Nico shakes his head. “Where’s Daddy?”

“Peque—” Carlos tries to explain, but Nico shakes his head and begins to cry.

“Where’s Daddy?” he demands once again, trembling.

“I’m here, buddy,” TK finally emerges through the front door, hand still clutching his arm. There’s no way Nico won’t see the injury now, Carlos knows that, and he fears their son might get scared beyond himself at the sight of it. “It’s fine, champ. We need to get out.”

“Is that—is that a knife?” Nico asks with wobbly lips, signaling at the utensil protruding out of TK’s arm. “Daddy?”

“It is a knife,” TK tells their son under Carlos’ worried gaze. “But everything will be fine, Nico. I’m going to the doctor, and I will be back in no time.”

“Will you?”

“I’ll bring him back myself, peque,” Carlos promises. “We will be back before you go to bed tonight,” he keeps on, nodding when Owen lifts an eyebrow his way. After a brief silent conversation with his father-in-law, he knows Owen has caught wind of what he’s asking — to allow Nico to stay up until they get back, so he can see himself that his Daddy is in perfect condition. 

“Promise?” Nico questions, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. “I know big kids don’t cry but, Papi, promise?”

“Hey now,” Carlos kneels in front of Nico and wipes away his tears. “It’s okay to cry when you’re scared, Nico. There’s nothing wrong with doing it. Daddy does it, I do it. Even Grandpa Owen!”

“Really?” Nico diverts his attention to his grandfather, who nods his head in reassurance. The child sticks his thumb once again in his mouth and sighs.

“We love you, Nico,” TK promises, dropping a kiss on their son’s head. “We’ll be back in time to tuck you into sleep. Pinky promise.”

They retreat back to the entrance door, this time leaving behind a sniffling Nico who’s asking Owen if they can have a bit of chocolate cake, “just because I’m scared, Grandpa,” and Carlos can’t help the chuckle that escapes his mouth as they make their way into the black SUV that replaced his Camaro when Nico came to live with them.

“I don’t know how you make it work,” Michelle tells them as she helps TK into the car and hops herself in the back seat. “You calmed him with just a few words when I was sure he would be terrified. You’re quite a sight right now, TK.”

“Oh, you know,” Carlos replies casually as he puts on reverse and joins the traffic in one swift movement. “We make a pretty good team.”

When they come back four hours later — after an exhausting and tense wait at the ER for TK to be treated and a small procedure to fix the inner injuries the knife had caused, all without anesthetic — Owen is dozing off on the couch but Nico is still up, eyes dropping closed from time to time, stubbornly waiting for them to come home.

As he scoops his son up in his arms and TK kisses his cheek, Carlos can’t help but think that he’s lucky to have such love in his life.


End file.
